


Two-Way Monologue

by pockettreatpete



Category: Journalism RPF, Real News RPF, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (TV)
Genre: Also they both have massive hard-ons for Doing The Right Thing, Because they're good boys who both married way up and know it, M/M, SO MUCH Unresolved Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pockettreatpete/pseuds/pockettreatpete
Summary: It was just a monologue.Just a monologue he’d specifically requested John watch. So John would see Stephen defending his honor. Which he didn’t need and hadn’t asked for.
Relationships: Stephen Colbert/John Dickerson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Two-Way Monologue

**Author's Note:**

> I-- I genuinely have no excuse for this. I do however want to be very clear that Chastened has encouraged, aided and abetted this thing from the start and I think it's fair she gets a portion of the blame. Say 30 %.
> 
> The monologue in question is this one: https://youtu.be/HaHwlSTqA7s

  
_**Stephen Colbert, May 1 2017, 7:27 PM**  
If you can you might want to catch my monologue live tonight_

_**John Dickerson, May 1 2017, 7:43 PM**  
I’m intrigued. What are you up to, Colbert?_

_**John Dickerson, May 1 2017, 11:52 PM**  
I think it’s probably not polite to call people at midnight,  
so if you’re up and see this, call me? _

Stephen bit his lip as he contemplated the text that had just ticked in. He was nervous, and not entirely sure why. It was just a monologue. He’d made a crude joke, sure, and he was increasingly convinced he was going to have to pay for _that_ , but all in all, just a monologue.

Just a monologue he’d specifically requested John watch. So John would see Stephen defending his honor. Which he didn’t need and hadn’t asked for. 

Stephen, and by extension his writers, had taken it on of their own accord. It was a petty and spiteful strike against a petty and spiteful man, on behalf of a man who was anything but. And then Stephen had nudged John to watch it, like a cat dragging a dead mouse inside to garner praise from its owner. 

Finally, resolutely, he tapped John’s name at the top of the conversation and pressed the call icon. 

“Hi.” 

He really wished John would have opened with a joke, instead of a single syllable that Stephen couldn’t read a mood out of. 

“Hey.” He paused for a second, momentarily unsure how to proceed to talk to the man who had _in fairness_ been the one to ask for the phone call. “Am I in the Dickersonian doghouse?” 

“Vladimir Putin’s cock holster?”

John sounded amused, sounded like he was grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and something tight in Stephen’s chest loosened. He smiled, picturing John in his TV room, the show progressing on mute in front of him as he was leaning back on the couch talking to Stephen. The idea made him weak in a way he couldn’t put a name to.

“I’ll admit right now that that one may give me more trouble than I fully anticipated.”

“That’s what I was thinking, you just gave the right an opening to call you a homophobe,” John said, voice warm and teasing. 

It felt so much like flirting, their banter. That’s what always left Stephen so destabilized whenever they spoke. John teased, complimented, asked thoughtful questions and listened to the answers, gave his whole attention to Stephen and the moment. It was… intoxicating. 

“Yeah, well. It was worth it.”

“Really?”

John sounded politely skeptical, and for a moment Stephen felt like the subject of an interview.

“The shock value will give it added attention,” Stephen explained, though he had to think John knew this. “So more people will see it.” 

John chuckled softly. “I…” He paused, and Stephen bit his lip to keep himself from nervously filling the quiet with something, _anything_. 

“I understand,” John said finally, “and I appreciate, what you were doing tonight. It was… wholly unnecessary, but a lovely gesture. I’m grateful.” 

“It’s the Tiffany way,” Stephen said, grinning stupidly in the face of John’s soft gratitude, helpless against the warmth gathering in his belly. 

John laughed. “I should get to bed.”

“Me too, actually.” 

“I’m going to be in New York early next week, I’m filling in on This Morning for a few days. Any chance you could scrounge up some free time while I’m in town?”

John was working hard on sounding casual, Stephen could tell. He smiled. On screen, he was silently bantering with Chris Pratt. “Drinks on you.” 

He could still hear John’s ringing laughter in his ear when he slipped into bed next to Evie. 

*

The bar was a favorite of Stephen’s. Dark-paneled, calm but not the kind of quiet where you could hear every word from the next booth over, old-fashioned – and incidentally the bartender could kick up a mean Old Fashioned. 

They were halfway through their second round, and probably about a third of the way through a discussion about some obscure Watergate minutiae, and Stephen could feel himself grinning stupidly wide, leaning in across the table.

"You know, there's probably nobody else in this city I could be having this conversation with," he said. He realized the moment he said it that it didn't really make any sense, but John grinned.

"Are you saying there's a dearth of nerds in New York?"

Stephen laughed. "Well. Not many as big as you."

John ducked his head – God, why was his modesty so desperately attractive? Stephen finished his drink, watching John over the rim of his glass. He took a deep breath, about to toss himself over the cliff, when John glanced at his watch. 

"I'm sorry," he said, before Stephen had a chance to say anything. "I really should be getting back to the hotel."

His stomach clenched. Had John realized what had been about to happen?

"Sure," he said numbly, trying to press in some fake cheer to his voice. "Of course. The morning shows wait for no man."

John's eyes sparkled. "Exactly."

He felt like an idiot, obvious and pathetic, saying "I'll walk you," but John nodded happy assent and didn't look like he found Stephen idiotic at all.

Later, he'd have absolutely no memory of what they'd talked about walking from the bar to the Fairfield inn. The only thing his mind fixated on was the way their hands brushed together from time to time, their shoulders occasionally jostling together

"Well, thanks for the drinks," Stephen said when they slowed to a stop.

"Thank _you_ for insulting the president of the United States in defense of my honor," John replied, grinning as widely as only two-drink John could.

Stephen laughed and nodded. "Any time, o face of the nation."

John didn't make any move to turn around and go inside, watching Stephen as if he expected him to say something more. Softly backlit by the lights from the lobby, he looked... god, fucking angelic.

"Hey," John said, finally. "Do you have time to come up for a couple of minutes? I wanted to talk about something in private."

Stephen swallowed. He'd spent a week trying to figure out if this was something to run away from or something to run towards. He'd gone in to the evening hoping the answer would present itself loud and clear, and it hadn't.

The door closed behind Stephen with a lazy click. He took a few steps into the room, then stopped to watch John empty his pockets and take off his jacket. Two notebooks, two pens, a pair of glasses, airpods and a wallet all added to the haphazard pile of journalistic detritus on the desk.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen John in shirtsleeves before, but something about the setting made it feel different. A hotel room was an intimate space by default. There were chairs arranged next to a small coffee table in the corner, and the aforementioned desk, but the focal point was the bed. A shirt and tie was flung across it, another sign – in addition to the already cluttered desk – that despite arriving late last night and working a full day John had still made it back here before meeting Stephen.

He realized a second too late that he was staring at the bed. Staring at the bed was weird, adding a whole layer of weirdness to the proceedings, that, in Stephen’s defense, were already pretty weird.

He looked back up to realize John was watching him with a gaze he could only ever describe as Dickersonian. He briefly imagined trying to answer questions, tough questions, under lock of those eyes. John, on the other hand, seemed to shake himself back on track. 

“I wanted to ask... Did you get in trouble with the network? Over the monologue?”

Stephen wasn’t sure what question he’d expected but it definitely wasn’t that. It made sense, though. _Of course_ John would feel responsible if something he hadn’t asked Stephen to do, hadn’t even known about, got Stephen in trouble.

"No," he said, waving his hand in a gesture he hoped would convey careful nonchalance. "My executive producer got an earful over the phone, I think, but nothing serious. Were you worried?" He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

John laughed. "I would feel bad, sue me."

"Well," Stephen said, leaning back against the wall, "for the moment nobody's suing either of us and we'll try to keep it that way."

John smiled, and the moment stretched out silently between them. John finally averted his eyes. 

"Stephen," he said, looking over at his pile of notebooks on the desk. His voice was small. "Why did you do it?"

Stephen exhaled and inhaled. "I think you know why, John."

John glanced back. "Would you mind spelling it out for me? Just... so we're on the same page."

Okay. So this was it. There was still theoretically a chance to back out of this, but fixed under the ice-blue stare he wasn't sure how real that chance was.

"I have a bit of a crush on you, John," he said, marveling at how casual he could sound, jokingly conspiratorial in his confession to one of his deepest, if poorly concealed, secrets.

John's face didn't so much as twitch, but he sat down on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. He cleared his throat once, then once more. Stephen bit his lip and waited. His pulse was pounding in his ears. Had he just thrown one of his best friendships away over this? John's voice was gravelly when he spoke. 

"I guess I knew, on some level."

It had every hallmark of rejection. Which he should have expected, honestly. Stephen nodded, not that John could see, and pushed himself away from the wall. Time to go. He was just about to start walking when John continued. 

"Probably on the same level where I knew that the feeling is mutual."

He froze. The evening had had so many ups and downs he wasn't sure what, if anything, to trust. John looked up at him. 

"I've done a pretty good job not thinking about it until this week,” John added.

"And this week?" 

His lips felt numb. His face felt numb. Most of him, Stephen had to concede, felt numb and shocked. John stood. He didn't come closer.

"This week, I can't _stop_ thinking about it," he admitted.

Stephen took a step closer. One more and he’d be right up in John’s face, close enough to — He swallowed. 

“I should go,” he said. 

“Yes,” John breathed. “I think you should.”

His eyes were mesmerizing. His lips, slightly open, were narrow and pale but looked soft. They looked welcoming. Then they were moving and it took his brain a second to process the word they were forming. 

“Stephen.”

“Yeah,” he replied, just about coherently, looking back up to meet the Dickersonian gaze.

“You’re still here.” 

“Yeah.” 

He wasn’t sure which of them took the last step and closed the distance but when they were chest to chest he couldn’t stop himself from leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to those lips. It was brief, but John kissed him back. 

He pulled back with a sigh. 

“This can’t happen.”

“No,” John agreed. He reached up to cup Stephen’s cheek, and carefully touched their lips together again. 

It felt too good. Stephen wasn’t sure he could — 

“Okay,” John said, opening his eyes, clearing his throat and backing away from Stephen. 

“Yeah,” he replied, even though it made no sense. “I’m… I’m gonna go.”

“Yeah,” John said, half-turning away. Stephen grit his teeth against the stab of… something? in his gut seeing John’s turned back. 

“I’ll see you, John,” he told John’s shoulder blade.

“I’ll see you, Stephen,” John told the carpet.

*

The next morning, on an overwhelming impulse of self-flagellation, he turned on the morning show. Stephen's chest ached with sympathy and bitter satisfaction when he realized that the studio make-up couldn’t fully cover the dark sleepless shadows under John’s eyes.


End file.
